Turning, Fleur faced Hartwell. She instantly regretted her decision.
Because at that very moment, her displeasure earned his…which Fleur really did not care at all about. What she did care about was the way Hartwell’s broad back tightened. And how that tensing made the fabric of his coat pull. And how it emphasized solid, sculpted shoulders and bulging biceps.
And then, the strangest thing happened. That same organ that had fallen climbed too quickly from her belly and beat entirely too fast.
A navy blue wool tailcoat, brown waistcoat, and fawn, fall-front trousers favored the gentleman and his physique.
Granted, all people favored the all-mighty Duke of Hartwell; why should garments or, for that matter, any other material thing, be any different? Just as annoyed by that truth as she was at her breathless awareness of him, she glared him into oblivion.
“I should have known it was you,Hartwell.”
“Lady Fleur,” he bowed, because with his rigid restraint, he could control his temperament.
Hartwell turned to Mr. Rundell and proved she had given him too much credit. “As much as the chit deserves a rough handling, do not do so on my account,” he said. “We are, regretfully, connected by our families through marriage.”
Mr. Rundell shook his head. “Horrid.”
Fleur curled her fingers tightly around the handle of her reticule. How dare he speak so of her kin? And how dare Fleur want to slink to the corner and curl up?
“You cannot begin to gather the extent of it,” the duke muttered.
“…They are vulgar and crude, and those are not the worst grievances against them…”
Fleur swung her bag and thwacked Hartwell hard in the ear.
He cursed. Before he could react, she hit him again. This time, at the back of his head.
“You blasted harpy. Would you quit already?” He snatched the reticule from her fingers and tossed it across the shop.
Panic pounded in her breast.
Fleur raced to gather her things. Falling to her knees, she snatched her bag and peeked inside. Her heart settled somewhat when she found the little bit of gold still safely in her possession.
“You are a great big bully,” she said as composedly as she could after beating a duke and nearly losing her potential husband’s heirloom.
“I am the bully?” Hartwell snorted. “This from the same woman who doesn’t possess enough manners to leave after a proprietor asked her to and then proceeded to assault me with that unfortunate piece of millinery?”
“My bag is quite lovely,” she said, affronted. “And Mr. Rundell did not ask,” she glared up at him. “He told me.”
“That is his right as the proprietor.”
“And then he threatened me,” she said.
The duke briefly considered the nasty jeweler. She waited for Hartwell’s defense—and in vain.
“Probably with good reason.”
Last night’s hurt washed fresh over her, and she wanted to howl. “Furthermore, you deserved a beating for speaking so about my family and me as well as for your pomposity.”
Speaking of pomposity, Hartwell peered down at her and reminded her she was still at his feet.
Fleur attempted to stand. “You just close the shop to patrons because you feel like it, Your Grace?” Her slipper caught on her lacy hem and bows, and she effectively ruined that delivery.
“Yes.” Hartwell settled his enormous hands at her waist, spanning her, making her feel dainty, reminding her what a bigman he was, and leaving her…breathless. “That is precisely what I did.”
He set her on her feet with a bothersome lack of the same awareness as she. “You heard Mr. Rundell. Run along.”
If she had a pistol, she would have shot the duke straight between his eyes—over his boorish behavior or the feelings his touch had roused, she knew not. Either way, they were both offenses worthy of a bullet.
